Sticks and Stones
by ggo85
Summary: The story is set a decade after S5.  When James Henry gets in trouble for fighting at school, Doc Martin and Louisa are forced to deal with the unexpected - and quite unpleasant - fallout.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

**Rating: PG (mild adult themes)**

**Setting: The story takes place approximately ten years after S5E8.**

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**Thanks once again to jd517 for her sage advice, helpful comments, and unflagging encouragement. **

* * *

><p>In my ten years of life, one thing I'd learned was that getting in trouble at school was always a bad thing. And, when your mum was the former head teacher and your dad was the village GP, getting in trouble for fighting in school was definitely a very bad thing.<p>

So, I was more than a bit anxious as I sat alone on the bench in a room next to the head teacher's office waiting for one or both of my parents to arrive. My mates were back in class and the head teacher, Mr. Gladstone, had put the bloke I was fighting with in another part of the school. Guess he didn't trust the two of us in the same room together, which was smart because, if I had another chance I would have slugged him again. And again. The tosser deserved it.

A glance at the wall clock showed that less than twenty minutes had passed since Mrs. Jones had called Mr. Gladstone to break up our fight, and he in turn had called my parents. I figured I probably had another ten minutes before one or both of them showed up and in that time I'd better get my story straight because neither one would take any rubbish from me.

I absently rubbed my hand against my trousers trying to clean off my fingers, which were covered in the blood that had poured out of my nose when Ben's fist had slammed into it. Mr. Gladstone had given me some tissues and I'd done my best to remember what my dad had taught me about holding my nostril closed for five minutes to get the bleeding to stop. My left eye hurt like the dickens and, even without glancing in a mirror, I knew my face was probably a mess. I didn't even want to think how Mum would react.

Mrs. Jones, my year 4 teacher from last year, poked her head into the room. "You alright, James?"

"Yes, Mrs. Jones."

I liked Mrs. Jones more than most of the kids at the school did. Sure, she was old and sometimes forgot stuff, but she was a nice lady who often brought biscuits or sweets for her class, rarely shouted, and actually seemed to like teaching us.

She looked down at the wad of bloody tissue in my hand. "Has your nose stopped bleeding?"

"It's all right." It had mostly stopped. There was still some blood but there wasn't much Mrs. Jones could do about it.

"Well, your dad will have a proper look when he gets here."

Yeah. So Dad was the one coming. That would be fun.

"James, it's not like you to fight. What happened?"

I didn't want to talk about it with her, or anyone else for that matter. I stared at my shoes. "It's nothing."

She shrugged. "All right then. I can't make you tell me. Wait here; I'm sure your parents will be along soon." She left the room, and left me feeling a little guilty for the way I'd treated her.

A short time later there was commotion outside and, through the glass window of the door, I saw that my mum and dad had both arrived. Mum looked worried and Dad looked . . . well . . . annoyed. Great.

Mr. Gladstone intercepted them at the doorway, obviously trying to explain things. Ignoring him, Mum opened the door and pushed past him with a loud, "I want to see my son."

I stood up as she entered and, within seconds, her hands were on my head, eyes scanning my face. "Oh my God. James. What happened to you?" Her look of shock and dismay made my stomach clench even tighter. She took a step back and turned to my dad, who'd just come into the room. "Martin! He's bleeding. And his eye!" It was almost a wail and made me wonder how bad I really looked.

"James," Dad said, stepping forward. "Let me see." It was his doctor's voice, steady as ever, if tinged with a tiny bit of concern. He lifted my chin and carefully scrutinized my face. After the pummeling I'd taken, it was comforting to rest in his large and familiar hands.

"What happened?" he asked.

"I went at it with Ben Carstairs," I replied.

"I can see that. From the looks of you it wasn't such a brilliant idea, now was it?"

I withered at the disappointment in his tone. More than anything, I wanted his respect. There were good reasons for what I'd done today, getting into the fight and all. Dad might see things differently if I ever got the chance to explain. For now, I could feel his disapproval and once again dropped my gaze to the floor.

He turned to Mum. "Louisa, why don't you sort things out with the teacher while I see to James?"

"Shouldn't I stay—?"

"No need. I've got things in hand here."

Mum bit her lower lip and nodded. "Right. I'll just go talk to Mr. Gladstone then. Find out what happened," she added, with a pointed glance at me.

Once she'd left, Dad refocused his attention on me. "Well, let's make sure you haven't concussed yourself." He held up his right hand. "How many fingers?"

My left eye was a bit blurry. It looked like two, or maybe it was three. "Two," I said hesitantly.

"Sure about that, are you?"

I was a bit surprised that he didn't seem angry and wondered whether he was saving his wrath until he'd made sure I was okay or whether he understood that sometimes guys had to take matters into their fists. I figured I'd find out when he was done.

He pulled his torch from the pocket of his suit and clicked it on. "Look straight ahead." He shined the light in each eye and then quickly moved it away.

"What day is it?" he asked.

"Thursday, the seventeenth," I answered easily.

"Who's your homeroom teacher?"

"Miss Owens."

"When's your birthday?"

"July 14th."

Dad gave a satisfied grunt and pressed his fingers around the edge of my eye. It hurt, a lot, and I flinched at the touch.

With his free hand, he grasped my head in a vise grip. "Hold still. I need to make sure you don't have an orbital or nasal fracture." A minute later, he picked up my right hand and examined the small cuts on the backs of my knuckles before running his practiced fingers along the bones, obviously checking to see if I'd managed to break anything.

As Dad continued to examine me, my eyes wandered to where my mum was standing outside the room with Mr. Gladstone. I couldn't hear what they were saying but there was a lot of talking and pointing. Mum looked concerned and I stared to wonder how much trouble I was in.

"Anything hurt other than your face and hand?" Dad's question forced my attention away from what was going on in the other room and back to him.

By this point in my life I knew that a "no" wouldn't get me out of a complete once-over and that what Dad was really asking was if there was something else that he needed to check right now, before we got back to his surgery.

"I'm okay," I said even though, now that the excitement of the moment had worn off, various parts of my body were starting to ache.

"Right. Then let's get that nasal bleeding under control." He picked up my left hand. "Lean forward." He tilted my head into the position he wanted. "Squeeze your nose in the front like this." He positioned my fingers and then watched as I followed his instructions. "Breathe through your mouth. That's it. Now hold it like that until I tell you to stop."

Leaving me, he headed for the door. When he opened it, Mum and Mr. Gladstone stopped talking to each other. Mum stared at me, still holding my stupid nose, and I couldn't tell from her expression if she was hurting for me or just plain mad.

"How is he?" Mr. Gladstone asked first.

"He's alright for now," Dad said. "No concussion or obvious fractures. I'll do a more complete examination at the surgery."

Mum sighed, obviously relieved at the news. "Thank God."

"I think it best if you take him home," Mr. Gladstone said. "You can make sure he's okay physically and it'll give both boys a chance to cool off. We can talk again in the morning. Obviously, something will need to be done about this," he finished ominously.

As soon as Mr. Gladstone had walked away, Mum came running up to me. "James, What were you doing fighting in school? You know better than that." As with Dad, it seemed she was more disappointed than angry.

I shrugged. "I'm sorry." It seemed like the easiest answer.

"You're sorry? What does that mean?"

I kept my head down and my mouth shut.

"Louisa," my dad said softly, coming to my defense. "Not now."

"Martin, I want to know why our son is fighting in school."

"As do I. But I think that discussion is best held somewhere other than this room."

He pulled my hand from my nose, checked to see that the bleeding had finally stopped, and then started to walk me toward the door. "We'll take him home, I'll examine him properly, and then we can talk about what happened."

None of those things sounded good to me. I had only to look at Mum's face to realize I was in for it, and what my dad had done was only to delay the inevitable.


	2. Chapter 2

The wind had picked up and it had started to rain by the time Dad's car pulled up to our cottage. The short trip had been made in complete silence. Both of my parents had clearly decided to hold off talking with me about what had happened until we got home, which was fine with me. I wasn't in any hurry to explain.

None of us had an umbrella, so we all hurried up the short hill and plowed through the kitchen door, brushing the rain off our coats once inside.

When I started to head toward the stairs that led to my room, Dad put a hand on my shoulder. "Young man, I still need to check you over," he said and prodded me toward his consulting room.

I gave a resigned sigh. When your dad was the GP it was pretty tough to get yourself out of a proper exam. As I passed by the waiting room, I noticed that it was unusually empty; not even the receptionist was there. With a sense of dread, I realized that my dad had probably canceled his remaining appointments, meaning that he had the rest of the day to spend with me. Crap.

Behind me, I heard Mum ask, "Should I come with you?"

Oh, God. Much as I loved my mum, I was too old for her to . . . well, it was just too embarrassing.

Surprisingly, Dad came to my rescue. "Uh, no. It won't take long. In the meantime, perhaps you could fix me some tea."

My relief at being saved from an examination in front of my mother was short lived. Once inside the consulting room, Dad nodded toward the exam couch. "Undress to your pants and have a seat on the table."

In some ways it sucked being the GP's kid in that there was no way I could ever fake an injury or illness the way my friends could. Not with my dad. He sorted out my friends, too, but they usually got in a good day of fakery before their parents dragged them off to see him, which was a day more than I ever got.

Trying to hide being sick or hurt from him was even harder. I'd figured out early on that my dad was really good at his job. It was amazing how he could spot something wrong with a person who was doing nothing more than walking along the sidewalk. Mum and I didn't stand a chance. Dad was always on the lookout for any sign that we were in less than perfect health, and slightest indication of an injury or illness would invariably trigger a complete examination.

I pulled off my trousers and folded them neatly atop the shirt and vest I'd already laid out on one of the chairs. As calm as my dad had been at school, I was pretty sure he was pissed and didn't want to give him any excuse to get even more ticked off at me, such as by dumping my clothes in an untidy heap.

It was actually rare for me to be in Dad's consulting room. Mum took me to Dr. Samuels, the GP in Wadebridge, for school physicals and other routine stuff. And, if I was sick, Dad usually brought his bag up to my bedroom and checked me over there.

Dad had made clear early on that this room that was off-limits. Once, when I was six, I'd snuck in when I knew he was out on a call. He'd come back early and found me going through his medical instruments. I'd never forget the furor in his eyes and knew he'd come close to smacking me.

He didn't. Instead, he'd sat me down and explained about the medicines he kept in here, the dangerous ones always locked up in one of the cabinets over the sink. He showed me each of the instruments with which I'd been playing and told me how easy it would be to injury myself badly with some of them, like his scalpels. He'd told me that I could visit this room any time I wanted when he was here without a patient and that he'd answer any questions I might have.

And then he'd taken away all my privileges for two weeks which, when I was six, had seemed like forever. And, in that no-nonsense tone of his, he'd made clear that I did not want to find out what would happen if I ever again disobeyed him by coming into this room without his permission. Which I never again did.

By the time I'd climbed onto the table, Dad had grabbed a handful of items from his desk and stepped over to me.

"All right, James, let's see what you've done to yourself." He started with my eyes, asking me to follow his finger and then stared into each of them with a bright light.

I'd vowed to remain quiet but my curiosity got the best of me. "What's that for?"

"It's an ophthalmoscope. It lets me see the back of your eye, which is called the fundus, to make sure there isn't any damage to your optic nerve or blood vessels."

"Oh. Right."

Dad set down his instrument and carefully probed all around my eye. Once again it hurt and I winced but this time kept my head still.

"You're lucky," he said. "There's no damage to the eye or the socket other than the hematoma."

I was proud that I already knew that hematoma meant bruise. "Will I have a black eye for long?" I asked, kind of hoping I would. And that Ben Carstairs would have two black eyes and a busted nose.

Dad frowned. "We'll ice it to keep the swelling down but, yes, there will be considerable bruising for several days at least."

I couldn't help but smile. Cool.

Dad looked into my nose with his little light then pulled on a rubber glove and ran his fingers around the inside of my mouth. "You're fortunate that none of your teeth was knocked out," he said when he'd finished.

"Dad, are you mad at me?"

He pulled off the glove and dropped it into the bin, then crossed his hands over his chest. "You mean for fighting at school?"

"Yeah."

"Obviously, I'm not happy about it."

I shrugged. "Figured as much."

"James, just because I'm disappointed in what you did at school today doesn't mean I'm angry with you."

I wasn't sure I understood the difference and decided this might not be the best time to ask.

Dad ran his hands along my shoulders, chest, ribs and back, pressing here and there and occasionally asking if something hurt, then had me lie back and checked my tummy. From what I could tell, he didn't seem too worried about whatever he found.

When I thought he'd finally finished and I started to sit up, he held up a hand and stared down at me. "Were you kicked or punched in the groin?"

I looked away. Of course Ben had kneed me in my bollocks, and the expression on my dad's face made clear that he knew exactly what had happened. After all, as the GP, he'd seen plenty of injuries from schoolyard fights.

"James?" Dad's voice was as calm and measured as ever.

"It's fine." I didn't even want to think about him examining me down there. He was a doctor but he was also my dad.

"I need to see," he said, still making no move to touch me. He was, I realized, going to do what he needed to while still trying to give me as much control as possible over the situation.

Reluctantly, I let him, keeping my eyes averted while he poked and prodded, suddenly incredibly grateful to him for making sure that Mum wasn't in the room for this.

He stripped off his gloves and stepped away from the table. "You'll be sore for a few days, but there's no serious damage. You need to let me know right away if you have any blood in your pee. Understand?"

"Yeah." I gulped. Blood in my pee? That sure sounded serious to me.

"Get your clothes on. We'll ice your eye while I dress your hand. And then," he said, his eyes holding mine, "we'll sit down with your mother and talk about what happened at school today."

I swallowed hard. It was time for me to tell Mum and Dad my side of the story. I just wasn't sure I could do it.


	3. Chapter 3

I followed my son out of my consulting room and into the kitchen, where Louisa was seated at the table, sipping a cup of tea. Her worried eyes flicked first to James and then settled on me.

"How is he?" she asked.

"Lucky. Some contusions and abrasions and of course the black eye. Nothing that won't heal completely in a week or so."

She sighed loudly. "Thank goodness."

I too was relieved. Not only had our son escaped serious injury but, according to Mr. Gladstone, so had the other boy. I'd seen more than a few schoolyard fistfights result in concussions, broken bones, and deep lacerations that required sutures. And, even worse, fights where one or both parties decided to pull a knife.

I pointed James to a chair. "Take a seat." I nodded at Louisa, letting her know that she should take the lead, before sitting down next to her, both of us facing our son.

"James," Louisa started, "why were you fighting with Ben Carstairs?"

As she spoke, I tried to remember Ben Carstairs. The name was familiar as a patient but I couldn't pick him out in my mind from of the dozens of boys who'd made their way through my surgery at one time or another.

James shook his head sullenly. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, we're going to talk about it, young man," Louisa said. "Mr. Gladstone said you _started_ the fight. Why James? Did Ben say or do something to you?"

I noted that Louisa was doing her best to remain calm when I knew that, inside, she was hurt and angry and frustrated. We both were. Until now, James had amassed an exemplary record in school. There'd been a handful of minor infractions for things such as chewing gum in class and, once, for talking back to his teacher. Louisa had assured me this was normal for boys his age.

But never anything like this. Not only had he gotten himself involved in an altercation with another student, but from what Louisa had learned, it appeared our son had actually initiated the fight.

James remained stubbornly silent.

"James, answer your mother," I said, giving him a stern look.

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter why I did it. I'm going to get in trouble no matter what."

While our son's assessment of the situation was probably accurate, we both knew that it was important to understand why our normally well-behaved child had suddenly decided to use his fists to sort out some disagreement. That conduct couldn't continue and, until we learned what had precipitated his actions today, we'd have little chance to prevent the situation from recurring.

Louisa tried again. "Something obviously upset you enough to hit one of your friends."

"Ben's not my friend! Not anymore."

"Why not, James? He used to be one of your best friends. What happened today?"

Our son continued to remain quiet, staring down at his bandaged hand. Louisa and I exchanged a look that said this wasn't going at all well. I gave her a slight shrug to indicate that I'd take a shot at getting him to talk.

"James Henry, the way you acted today is not how we've raised you to behave. What you did goes against all that your mother and I have taught you. So I think we're entitled to an explanation, don't you?"

James raised his head and stared straight through me and I couldn't help but notice how his hair stuck up awkwardly in front like mine had at his age.

"Ben said something to me," he said. "Something I didn't like, all right?" He slammed his bandaged hand onto the table and immediately winced in pain.

Louisa rolled her eyes. "How many times have we told you that words are just words? They can't hurt you."

I wanted to tell her that the comment really wasn't helpful. Whatever this Ben character had said to James, those words had indeed hurt our son. Hurt him enough to respond with his fists.

"What did Ben say?" I asked.

James looked away. "It's not important."

"Yes it is," Louisa said.

I shot her a look that suggested it might be better if I took over the questioning for a bit. I knew from experience that one of the main reasons for a boy to lead with his fists was when a peer insulted his mother. If that had happened here, James Henry might find it easier to share that fact with me.

Louisa's mouth turned into a pout and, with a small sigh, she sat back in her seat.

I kept my eyes on my son. "Whatever the other boy said, it must have made you very angry."

"Yeah," James replied and I could see from the tension in his face that he was starting to relive the moment.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing."

I did my best to keep my expression and my voice non-judgmental. "James."

"All right. If you must know, he said something about Mum." He paused for a half-second. "And about you."

I wasn't surprised. Young boys in the schoolyard with too much time on their hands obviously hadn't changed much since my day. I still wanted to know what had provoked James as we couldn't have him fighting every time another child made an inappropriate comment. A quick glance at Louisa showed that she also seemed to have expected something along these lines. Having been a head teacher for years, she too had considerable experience with energetic young boys.

"Tell me what he said," I said.

James shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "I can't."

"Yes you can," I encouraged. I was prepared to wait as long as it took to get an answer from him, something I was sure James well knew.

After a long minute, he let loose a long breath. "All right. If you must know, he said Mum got knocked up with me. And that you didn't want to marry her."

Beside me, Louisa gasped. I, on the other hand, didn't react. James Henry already knew that Louisa and I had married long after he was born. Which meant that the boy's comments, while offensive, didn't seem sufficiently provocative to cause our normally calm son to take a shot at his classmate.

"What else did he say?" I prodded.

James swallowed hard, still refusing to meet my eyes. "He said that you didn't want me or Mum. That you were going to leave us here and move to London."

Beside me, Louisa visibly stiffened in her chair and I pressed my lips together.

"And?" I asked, knowing there was still more to come and knowing neither Louisa nor I was going to like what our son was about to tell us.

He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his lower lip.

"James?"

"Ben said the reason you didn't want me was that Mum got knocked up by someone else. He said that you weren't my real dad."


	4. Chapter 4

I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I saw tears streaming down Louisa's cheeks. As much as I wanted to wrap her in my arms and try to take away some of her pain, I knew I'd have to wait until later tonight, when we were alone. For now, we had to deal with the fact that some moronic child had caused our son to doubt that I was his biological father. Bloody hell.

At some level, we shouldn't have been surprised. Between the village's love of gossip and the proclivity of young children to seize on any perceived weakness to use in tormenting each other, the only surprise should have been that this was the first time James had heard such nonsense.

I reached across the table and placed my hand atop Louisa's, silently indicating that I'd take the first crack at dealing with this mess.

"James—" I started.

"Martin," Louisa said, "Let me." She turned to our son. "James," she said softly. "James, look at me." She waited until his head slowly rotated and his eyes reached her face.

"James Henry Ellingham, your father is absolutely, one hundred percent your father and you are one hundred percent his son. There was never, ever, anyone else. Do you understand?"

Our son barely nodded and I knew he wasn't convinced. It was hard for simple truth to compete with the wild allegations of a schoolyard bully. In an instant, I realized that the only way we would ever be able to convince our son what was true and what was not was to tell him everything. Or at least almost everything.

"James, some of what you were told about your mother and me is true. Most of it is utter nonsense. I think it might help if we told you what actually did happen."

For the first time today, I saw a glimmer of hope in our son's eyes. "Would you? Really?"

"Yes."

"Martin?" Louisa asked unable to mask the hesitation in her voice.

I understood her apprehension. Our story was, at times, not a pretty one, for either of us. It would reopen old wounds and force us to relive the cruel words we'd spoken and the poor decisions we'd made. The good news was that the happiness of our lives and marriage today was the product of that tortured journey. More importantly, unless we explained the whole bloody mess to our son, his imagination would create a scenario much worse than reality, and today's events would undoubtedly repeat themselves over and over again.

"He's a young man now," I said. "Old enough to hear this I should think."

As we moved into the living room to continue the conversation, I took Louisa's hand in mine and gently squeezed it, trying to project a confidence and reassurance that I wasn't sure I completely felt. Louisa and James settled on the sofa, and I took a chair across from them.

This was my idea so I should probably be the one to start the story. I'd never been good at expressing my feelings to anyone. Now I'd committed to doing so to my son. I was going to have to explain why Louisa and I hadn't married the first time, how I'd reacted to her pregnancy, why I'd wanted to go to London, the whole mess. Well, I'd have to explain most of it. Some parts, such as Edith Montgomery, were best omitted.

I looked at Louisa, who gave me an encouraging smile.

After taking a deep breath and exhaling, I plunged into the abyss. "I think I fell in love with your mum the first time I saw her. We were on an airplane and I kept staring at her. I told myself it was because I suspected she had glaucoma – an eye infection," I clarified for James. "Mostly, I wanted an excuse to look at her."

"Of course your father was right medically," Louisa chimed in. "I did have glaucoma. And," she now smiled broadly, "I rather liked that he was staring at me."

Hmm. That wasn't exactly how I remembered it. "The problem," I continued, "was that I'm not – at the time I wasn't – very good at saying what I felt or how I felt."

James frowned at me and it was clear that he didn't understand my words.

I sighed. "I had a hard time telling your mum that I loved her."

"But you did?" James asked. "Love her?"

"Yes. I loved her, and still love her, very much." How much easier it was to speak the words now than it had been more than a decade ago.

I faltered, not sure what to say next. Thankfully, Louisa seemed to sense my unease and took up the story. "Your dad and I went on like that for awhile, both of us having trouble saying to each other what we really meant. Then one day, your dad saved the life of one of my best friends. He was bloody brilliant," she said, and I knew she was remembering the moment. "Afterwards, he asked me to marry him."

"But you didn't get married then, right?"

Louisa looked at me helplessly.

"No," I said. "I . . . I couldn't go through with it. I was afraid that I wouldn't make your mother happy."

"And I didn't think I would make your father happy," Louisa added.

"That doesn't make any sense," James said.

I saw Louisa smile at the comment. "I'm not sure it made sense to us either at the time," she said. "We simply realized we weren't ready to get married."

In my mind, I could still picture Louisa in her wedding dress walking down the steps outside my cottage. I'd let her go and, all these years later, still wondered how our lives might have been different if I'd only run after her that day and told her how I felt.

Louisa sighed and picked up our story. "After that, I left. I left Portwenn and left your father without saying a word."

"Why'd you do that?" James asked with the innocence of childhood.

"It was too hard to stay. I couldn't bear to see your father every day knowing that we—" Louisa's eyes started to tear up and I reached out and slid my hand atop hers, willing her to continue.

"I went to London and found out I was pregnant with you," she added. "Only I didn't tell your father."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"Mum!" James wasn't going to let her get away with the non-answer. Louisa's decision not to inform me of her pregnancy for six months was something we'd rarely discussed even after all these years, and I was almost as curious as my son to hear her explanation.

"I guess I wasn't sure how he'd react, how the village would react to my being pregnant and not married," she said. "I was stupid." She addressed the next words to me. "It was completely the wrong thing to do. Your father had every right to know about you."

Again, I couldn't help but think what might have happened if Louisa had simply picked up the phone and told me that she was pregnant. Would I still have tried to conquer my hemophobia, return to surgery and to London? Would I ever have taken up with Edith?

"So what happened when you found out?" James asked me, interrupting my rumination.

"I was surprised." Bloody hell; that sounded all wrong. "I mean, I hadn't realized your mum was pregnant. When she showed up, I . . . wasn't prepared, and I . . . I said and did all the wrong things."

"Ben said you wanted to go to London," James said. "You wanted to leave me and Mum."

The boy's pain was palpable and, at some level, the accusation was true. I did plan to leave; hell, I left. Only a bizarre series of circumstances, most of which weren't even my doing, brought me back. So where to start? How much of my blood thing and my surgical career and the whole mess I'd created did I want to share with my son today?

"I didn't _want_ to leave," I started. "I just thought . . . I was wrong," I finsihed simply.

"There was a . . . misunderstanding," Louisa added.

"What does that mean?" James asked with the annoying blunt inquisitiveness of a child his age.

"It's not important," Louisa said. "What is important is that your father was there when you were born and, from then on, he's always been there for you . . . for both of us."

Despite Louisa's statement, James was looking at me, clearly expecting me to answer for my actions. And maybe it was time I finally did, if not for James, for Louisa.

"Before you were born," I started, "I could only imagine what it was like to have a son. I knew your mother would take excellent care of you and that my involvement in your life was . . . superfluous. Unnecessary," I added. "And then, when I saw you for the first time, it was . . ." I paused trying to find the right words. "To have someone who is a part of you, whom you helped create . . . I knew I could never leave you, or your mother."

It was one of the longest speeches I'd ever given, and the sight of another tear sneaking down Louisa's cheek told me that however awkwardly I'd phrased it, I'd said the right thing, at least as far as she was concerned.

"But you still didn't get married," James said.

"Your father wanted to," Louisa said, sniffing slightly. "He asked me several times. He wanted to do the right thing and I was . . ."

"What's important is that we're married now," I finished for her. "And you're our son, _my_ son."

"And we love you very much," Louisa added.

"So you're really my dad?" James asked.

"Yes, I am."

"Then why did Ben say that you're not?"

"Because he's a nasty child," I replied.

Louisa jumped in. "James, sometimes people say things that aren't true to make themselves feel better."

"Why?"

"It doesn't matter," I said. "What does matter is that your mother and I love each other very much. And we love you." As I spoke, I realized they were words neither of my parents had ever spoken. Ever.


	5. Chapter 5

"Now, James," my mother said, "We still need to talk about what happened today at school."

Bugger. I'd been kind of hoping that, when my mum and dad got all goo-goo eyed, they might forget about what I'd done at school. Obviously not and, for now, I decided to keep quiet and see how things played out.

"I know that what Ben said made you angry," Mum was still talking. "As you get older, people will say a lot of hurtful things. And when that happens, you can't just hit someone."

I snuck a glance at my dad to see if he was agreeing with this. Best I could tell, he was. "Mum, I couldn't just let him say those things about you and Dad. It's not right!"

"Neither is fighting. Fighting is wrong, James Henry. It gets you in trouble at school and, when you get older, will get you in trouble with the law. Not to mention that you or someone else could be seriously hurt."

I wasn't convinced. If I let Ben get away with saying stuff like he did today, pretty soon it would be all over school and everyone would think my mum was a slut and I was a bastard. No way would I let that happen.

"There'll be no more fighting at school or anywhere else. Do you understand me, James Henry Ellingham?" Mum asked sternly.

I shook my head sullenly.

"James Henry," my father said in a voice that made clear that this time I'd get no help from him. "Answer your mother."

"Yes, Mum," I mumbled.

Mum's eyes locked on mine with an icy stare that I was sure had frightened many a student in her days as head teacher. "Yes Mum what?"

"I won't fight no more." My tone made clear that I was being forced to say the words.

"_Any_ more," she corrected as Dad gave me a look that said I'd better answer up smartly or I was in for even more trouble with him.

I knew when I was beaten, and this time I tried putting a little enthusiasm into my tone. "Yes, Mum, I won't fight any more."

"That's better," she said and stood up. "Now I'll fix you some dinner and then you need to go to bed. We have to meet with Mr. Gladstone in the morning and I expect he'll have some discipline in mind – as will your father and I."

Oh boy. Mr. Gladstone would probably make me stay after school for at least a week. And I knew my parents had lots of options in terms of punishment, all of which would suck. At the time I'd done it, I was glad I'd punched Ben in the face; now, I was having second thoughts. Not because he didn't deserve it but because in the end I was probably going to suffer more than he would. Double bugger.

"Only give him something light to eat," I heard Dad say as Mum started to pull things out of the cupboard. "He was punched in the abdomen so his stomach's bound to be a bit queasy."

"He got punched in the stomach!" Mum looked horrified. "He won't develop a ruptured spleen like Peter Cronk, will he?"

What in the world was Mum talking about?

"No," Dad reassured her. "Boys his age can't really inflict that much damage with their fists. I'll check him again before he goes to bed to be sure."

After some discussion, Dad agreed to let Mum fix me scrambled eggs with cottage cheese. While it wasn't exactly my idea of dinner, my stomach was starting to act up a bit and I was just as happy not to try the spicy fish stew that I knew Mum was preparing for the two of them.

Mum and Dad didn't say much while I ate, and I was sure they'd have a long talk after I'd gone to bed. At this point, I was too beat to try to outlast them. The various parts of my body where I'd been punched and kicked were hurting; I could only hope Ben Carstairs was faring even worse.

"All right," Dad said, when I'd finished off the last of the eggs. "Off to bed you go."

I pulled myself out of the chair as gracefully as I could, fully aware that Dad's doctor's eyes were watching my every move.

I gave Mum my usual peck on the cheek. "Night, Mum. And . . . I'm sorry for fighting at school today."

"I know, James. And I love you." She hugged me back, hard, and again I had to control the urge to cry out.

I nodded at my father. "Good night, Dad." Boys my age didn't hug or kiss their dads.

He put a hand on my shoulder. "Go get your pajamas on. I'll be up shortly."

I diligently worked my way through my evening ritual and, for the first time all day, got a good look at myself in the mirror. I was already developing quite the shiner and rather hoped that the guys at school would be impressed. Despite my apologies, I felt quite proud of myself for defending Mum. Yeah, fighting was wrong but sometimes you had to do it and today was one of those times.

Dad came into my bedroom as I was pulling on my pajama top. "Did you brush your teeth?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Use the lavatory?"

"Yes."

"Wash your hands and face?"

"Yes, Dad."

"All right, then, into bed you go."

I climbed into my bed and started to pull up the sheets. Dad slid next to me and gently grabbed my hand.

"Wait a minute. I need to check you again."

I rolled my eyes. "Dad, I'm fine." I knew he was simply being his usual thorough self, but at times like this I wished my dad wasn't a doctor.

"Shush," he said, but his voice was gentle as were his hands as he probed the area around my eye and then pressed on my stomach.

"Dad, what's a ruptured spleen?"

"The spleen is an organ in your abdomen, located here." He pressed lightly on an area near the top left side of my belly. "The spleen purifies your blood and stores blood cells. It's very susceptible to injury and, if damaged, can rupture, or split open, which causes severe internal bleeding."

"Oh." My dad sure knew a lot and, I had to admit, always answered my questions, no matter how stupid he probably thought they were.

Dad continued probing my belly and then pulled the blanket over me. "You're fine."

"Told you so," I said.

"Yes, you did." He reached for a bottle on the bedside table and poured some of the liquid into a measuring spoon. "I need you to take this."

"What is it?"

"Paracetamol. It's an analgesic, a medicine that helps relieve pain."

"I'm not in pain," I protested.

"Really?" Dad gave me a look of disbelief.

"Well, not too much," I admitted.

"I can promise you the pain will get worse during the night. The paracetamol will help you get the rest you need." Dad handed me the spoon with the medicine, and I dutifully swallowed it.

"Will I have to go to school tomorrow?"

"I expect so."

"Hmm." It figured. There was no way Dad would write me a sick note if I wasn't really sick and, as a teacher, no way Mom would let me stay out of school one minute more than absolutely necessary. Especially when we had an appointment with Mr. Gladstone. I bet Ben Carstairs would get to stay home for at least a day. Somedays it sucked being me.

"Hey, Dad."

"Yes, James."

"I'm glad you and Mum told me the truth."

"We'll always tell you the truth, James. And we expect you to do the same. And now that you know the truth, it shouldn't matter what others say to you."

It was funny the way Dad talked to me, almost like an adult. Mostly it felt good; sometimes, it was a little scary.

"Yeah, but if anyone says anything bad about Mum, I'm still going to smack 'em." And I would too.

"James, you promised your mother and me that you wouldn't fight—"

"Dad! I'm not going let tossers like Ben Carstairs dis Mum. It's wrong."

"Yes, it is wrong. As is fighting. And I know you long ago learned that two wrongs don't make a right."

"So what am I supposed to do?" I knew what my mum wanted, but she was a girl. I needed to hear from my dad what a guy should do when someone dissed his mum.

"Sometimes you have to let them tease you," he said softly.

Strange words coming from my dad, who suddenly had a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were remembering something. I frowned. "What?"

"It's something your mother once said, a long time ago when some people were saying nasty things about me."

"About you? Like what Ben said?"

Dad shook his head. "No, something else. And I responded much as you did today."

"You punched them?" I asked, trying unsuccessfully to imagine my father hitting anyone.

"Of course not! But I became angry and said things that were better left unsaid. My words only encouraged them and made it worse."

"So what happened?"

"I proved to them that what they were saying about me didn't matter."

"How'd you do that?"

"I saved a boy's life. Peter Cronk, the boy your mother mentioned tonight."

The way my dad said it, so matter-of-fact - it was like he saved people's lives every day. Which, come to think if it, maybe he did. "Cool! How'd you do that?"

My dad frowned. "Let's save that story for another time. You, young man, need to get some sleep."

"Oh, come on, Dad. I want to hear the story."

He shook his head and stood up from the bed. "Some other time, perhaps. Not tonight."

"Tomorrow night?" I asked hopefully.

"Some other time, James," he said firmly.

I'd long ago learned there were times when pushing my dad wouldn't do me any good, and this was definitely one of those times. "Bummer."

Dad gave me his GP look. "Right. Now, if you have pain during the night, or feel sick, I want you to come wake me right away. Come to our bed immediately. Understand?"

I sighed. "Yes, Dad."

He leaned down and brushed his hand along my forehead and into my hair. "Good night, James."

"Night, Dad." I waited until he'd reached the door. "Hey Dad."

"Yes."

I smiled up at him. "I'm glad you're my dad."

He paused a moment, then said, "I'm glad you're my son."

And, just before he flicked off the light, I saw a smile on his face.

_~The End~_

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes:<strong>

**So my little tale comes to an end. A huge and sincere thanks to all of you who took the time to comment and for your words of encouragement. And, as always, to my beta, jd517, who convinced me this story wasn't too "out there."**

**As I've told some of you, the mind of a 10-year-old boy, and especially the son of DM and LG, is sometimes a strange place to be! But, it _was_ fun and, maybe, one of these days in the not-too-distant future, I'll venture back there.**


End file.
